


green eyes

by novoaa1



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, BAMF Natasha Romanov, Bottom Wanda Maximoff, Cigarettes, Dom/sub Undertones, Domestic, F/F, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Light Dom/sub, POV Wanda Maximoff, Pet Names, Praise Kink, Top Natasha Romanov, coffee shops!, do i knwo what i'm doing with this story? vaguely, is this planned? not in the slightest, it's cute, might end up rating it explicit we'll see, natashas confident, rated mature for later chapters prolly, soft Wanda Maximoff, super brief but it's there, teacher pietro maximoff, um, wanda is super flustered, wandas a gay mess, whatever ok
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2020-10-12 21:55:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20571536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novoaa1/pseuds/novoaa1
Summary: Wanda has a pretty normal life, living with her twin brother in a two-bedroom apartment in metropolitan San Francisco.She has a steady job, works around six-to-seven nights a week, and, when wealthy men heavily under the influence of alcohol at her job call her 'sweetheart' and feed her barf-worthy pick-up lines in some classless ploy to get into her pants (or skirt, as it were), she brushes them off... because, maybe it's unpleasant, but it's nothing new.Except, one night... things are different. Wanda sees something new—someonenew, really.(It changes everything.)





	1. cinnamon & honeysuckle

**Author's Note:**

> *sigh* i blame the wandanat discord for this
> 
> anyways
> 
> pleasE don't expect timely updates for this, 'cause i just started college and i mighT be doin pre-med so my schedule's kinda crazy and all that
> 
> but um. i'm excited for this, and i think this is soemthing i wanna add on to in the future... let me know what u think?

Wanda lives a simple life (which is something of a godsend, truth be told, because heaven knows she and Pietro most certainly didn’t used to): she wakes up late (11am or so), assembles a lunch for Pietro with whatever they have on hand in the apartment, and heads out around 3 to get to work by 4 (it’s just over five miles, and oftentimes, she finds herself quite distracted by a pretty bird or an especially odd-shaped cloud in the sky above or… anything, really). 

It’s not the best job in the world (she works as a hostess at a fairly upscale restaurant in downtown San Francisco), but it certainly pays the bills, and she knows damn well that she’s lucky to have it—even if the men stare directly at her breasts while she’s trying to take their order, and she’s been called ‘sweetheart’ rather than her name (clearly visible upon the rectangular white tag pinned to her button-up shirt) more often than is probably reasonable, and one time a rather drunk man boldly grabbed a handful of her ass beneath the (admittedly) short black skirt she’s required to wear as part of the uniform in such a lewd way it had her freezing in place on the spot because she couldn’t believe someone would have the audacity to comport themselves in such a way. 

(In the end, security had been called—not by Wanda, but by one of the fellow servers, a sweet pint-sized Latina named Elise—to come take the rowdy man away. She’d shaken it off as best she could, finishing out her shift like a professional… but, she’d also splurged for an Uber that night instead of walking home around 3am as she usually did, the phantom feeling of the man’s hand beneath her skirt like a burn that never quite went away. 

Pietro was asleep when she entered their apartment, and, to this day, she’s never told him about it—he’d be so angry on her behalf, she knows, and really, it’s not worth the trouble that’ll inevitably ensue if he knew.)

Tonight’s a night like any other—her skin crawls under the leering stares of multiple middle-aged men, and they all call her ‘sweetheart’ more than enough times to make her wonder if she should even bother with the name tag any longer; but, she does her job, smiling generously at each couple and larger group that walks through their doors, wishing them all a good night without flinching under the hungry gazes of the well-dressed men and the subsequent angry glares of (most) impeccably done-up women on their arms. 

It doesn’t seem to matter, either, that the form-fitting white blouse is buttoned up nearly all the way (though the manager, a tired-looking woman named Angela, had given her a meaningful glare as soon as she’d entered, which had her reluctantly undoing a couple more in order to put the elegant slopes of her collarbones and the barest hint of cleavage on display), or that she’s wearing her black suede uniform skirt as modestly as Angela will allow (it still stops just above mid-thigh—sometimes, Wanda’s not sure why the hell she even bothers). 

But, still, it’s not terrible, by any means, nor is it anything new—she plays hostess at the front for a couple hours, tends to Elise’s tables for a half an hour or so while the girl goes out for a smoke break, and, when men flash her that wolfish grin and whistle as she walks by, she pastes a wide smile on her face and ignores them because she knows it’s not worth upsetting herself over.

By all means, it’s all shaping up to be a rather run-of-the-mill shift as the round analog clock in the kitchen nears 12:30am, and Wanda’s long since begun counting down the minutes until she’s free to go home—her cheeks hurt from flashing that faux smile all night, her slim fingers tingle with something that borders on pain from consistently handling too-hot dishes to serve, and three separate men have already propositioned her with slurred words that reek of hard liquor and bad intent to accompany them back to their place. 

She’s tired, and fading quickly, and, she’s just about ready to smack herself when she pays the price for that not 10 minutes later—she’s walking over through an array of two-seater white-clothed tables towards the kitchens, exhaustion slowing her strides and dulling her reflexes such that when a faceless (but sharply-dressed) man who smells of scotch places his large suit-clad arm around her waist to pull her in, she can’t stay calm and swiftly maneuver her way out of it as she normally does: no, instead, her breath hitches in her throat and before she can really think better of it, her entire body is jerking violently away from his, her clumsy Converse-clad feet tripping over one of his shiny-toed shoes along the way, and suddenly she’s falling backwards towards the carpeted (yet quite solid) floors in slow-motion, arms flailing uselessly as she sinks closer and closer to—

It stops all of a sudden—her body is no longer falling, the apprehensive dread building in her chest is put on hold for the moment, and she feels warm all around, like something (or some_one_) is keeping her steadfastly aloft. 

It takes her a second or two to realize it, but eventually her exhaustion-addled brain registers a sweet-smelling perfume (like cinnamon and honeysuckle) and full red-painted lips and the greenest pair of eyes she’s ever seen in her life—she’s a woman (the most beautiful woman Wanda has ever seen) with gorgeous fiery-red hair pinned in an impeccable updo holding Wanda upright, and God, she feels her shoulders reflexively shrinking and her face heating under the intense evergreen gaze even as the gorgeous creature’s blood-red lips curve into a deadly smirk just inches from her face, apparently amused in some capacity by Wanda’s bashfulness.

Then suddenly, she’s being pulled up and forward (_God_, this woman is strong) to stand upon her own two feet again (though her legs shake violently beneath her and she’s downright terrified she’s going to fall again) across from the most ethereal woman she’s ever met, and she’s just about ready to spontaneously implode when the woman’s regal features crease into something like bemused worry, asking, “Are you alright, darling?” in a low, husky voice tinged with the slightest hint of Slavic origins (Russian, perhaps?)—Wanda thinks it’s rather possible that she blacks out for a moment or two, because this unspeakably elegant redheaded woman is looking at her like _that_ and furrowing her immaculately-done brows along with the barest hint of a knowing smirk on her ridiculously tempting lips, and seriously, but Wanda’s way too gay for this. 

(She also finds herself positively reveling in the way that term of endearment had sounded coming off the woman’s tongue—God, she’ll roll her eyes all night at the men who try calling her ’sweetheart’ and ‘cutie’ and ’sugar’ like it’s anywhere near as charming as they think it is, but fuck if she doesn’t want to hear this beautiful lady calling her ‘darling’ one more time, no matter what it costs her.)

The woman quirks a single brow then, still quite evidently waiting for a reply, and Wanda thinks she quite literally explodes right then and there. “I-I—Yes, I’m—Yes,” she stammers out dumbly after a protracted moment, her cheeks set aflame under the woman’s unrelenting gaze, only worsening tenfold when the ridiculously delayed realization hits her that the woman’s steadying hand remains rested comfortably upon Wanda’s waist, setting her entire being alight with even the barest ghost of a touch. 

(And, God help her, but Wanda wants _more_.)

She can scarcely hear the bustling chatter of wealthy couples seated at nearby tables, the weighty fog of unmitigated exhaustion that seems to dissolve with almost unreal haste—she's cognizant of the world around her in only the vaguest of senses because all she can comprehend is the hypnotic green of this woman’s eyes, the intoxicating sweetness of her scent steadily permeating Wanda’s oscillating state of consciousness, the unfathomable proximity of their bodies just inches apart—

Holy shit. 

Holy _shit_. 

She’s not sure why she’s only just noticing it now, or how in the world she’d missed it before—but this enigmatic goddess is wearing an honest-to-God _suit_ with midnight-black fitted pants and an unbuttoned blazer to match, layered over a starch-white button-up with the top two buttons left casually undone. 

(Wanda briefly wonders whether or not it’s possible to have a heart attack at the ripe young age of 23 when confronted with… _this_, because, really, she’s not a doctor, but she’s pretty sure she’s about to pass out right now.)

“Wanda, is it?” the woman questions offhandedly, her elegant voice practically dripping with a reserved sort of confidence Wanda can’t help but find endlessly attractive even as she knows it’s a strange thought to have, especially about a stranger (no matter how enchanting).

Wanda feels herself nod shallowly as if suspended in the most alluring daze, her brain struggling horribly to form words. 

The woman doesn’t seem to mind it, though, if the way her red-lipped smile widens and her gorgeous green eyes crinkle at the edges is any indication—“I’m Natasha. Natasha Romanov,” she drawls, low and sensuous with that slight Slavic tinge to her words, her full lips curling around the final ‘V’ in such a way that Wanda thinks she’s going to implode on the spot, and God help her but Wanda can’t do anything beyond blink wordlessly back in lieu of response. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. … ?” 

She trails off then, and Wanda _knows_ what she’s looking for, knows why those jade-green eyes are searching hers in ever-polite askance even as she feels her thoughts spin violently enough to render her entirely dizzy under their decidedly tumultuous disarray—eventually, she clears her throat, her heated blush intensifying in her cheeks as she manages to stammer out, “M-Maximoff,” in answer as best as she can. 

The woman—_Natasha_, Wanda hastily corrects herself—merely quirks a single brow, green-eyed gaze sparkling with something like genuine interest even while she genially withdraws her hand back from Wanda’s waist to slide it deftly into the pocket of her immaculately-pressed slacks, and Wanda has to swallow the desperate whine that threatens to escape her at the sudden loss. 

“Wanda Maximoff,” the wom—_Natasha_—muses languidly as if trying the sound of it out on her tongue, wine-red lips still curved into the barest hint of a smirk, and Wanda feels her knees go weak beneath her. “A gorgeous name for a gorgeous woman.”

Wanda thinks her brain short-circuits then, can feel the way her lips part slightly in light of the entirely unsolicited (but not unwelcome, by any means) compliment, the way it causes warmth to spread from head to toe throughout her entire being even as she sways ever-so-slightly in place in an attempt to keep her balance—God, she’s never known anything like this before, anything so sweet and heavenly and entirely off-putting in the best possible way, and, really, she has half a mind to think that this is all merely an elaborate dream… and, a fantastical one, at that. 

“T-Thank you,” she murmurs eventually, ducking her head bashfully as she trips inelegantly over her words, Natasha’s intent gaze seeming to burn right through her with every passing moment. 

An abrupt _clang!_ from the kitchens makes Wanda flinch, and it’s as if that’s all it takes to break the spell—the bustle and sociable chatter of the restaurant filters back in (though admittedly Wanda’s not quite sure when exactly it’d filtered ‘out’ to begin with), Natasha’s green eyes grow marginally more guarded, Wanda’s being feels inexplicably less drawn by some indecipherable magnetism towards the undoubtedly alluring woman in question.

“Excuse me, pretty girl,” Natasha offers graciously, leaning in to fix Wanda with catlike green irises that sparkle with something Wanda thinks vaguely resembles an apology—but Wanda can’t focus on that, can only focus on that cursory term of endearment, the way it sounded falling from Natasha’s plush lips, the full-bodied shiver that travelled down Wanda’s spine in its wake. 

“I have to get back,” she adds, beginning to turn in place (presumably in order to begin making her way back to her table) before halting herself, darkened green eyes traveling up and down the length of Wanda’s slender form as if searching for something, though Wanda doesn’t for all the world know what that could possibly be. “I do hope we meet again, Wanda Maximoff,” she finishes with a devastating smirk that dimples her cheek, and sooner than Wanda can blink, she’s gone: striding off assuredly into the fray, steep red-bottomed heels clicking rhythmically on every step, leaving a slack-jawed Wanda standing dumbly in her wake, positively drowning in an intoxicating cloud of honeysuckle and cinnamon that serves as the only token to ensure her that that really just happened. 

The rest of her shift passes in something of a haze—greeting faceless couples, attending to a pre-determined route of tables, smiling politely in the face of every last unreasonable request she lobbies… and, through it all, she thinks only of Natasha: those impossibly green eyes, the subtle curve of her plump red lips, the degree of overwhelming confidence she practically _oozed_ from the very start. 

She knows it’s unreasonable, knows she’s likely blowing their brief interaction wildly out of proportion, knows that there isn’t a chance in _hell_ this ‘Natasha Romanov’ would ever be even remotely interested in someone like her… 

And yet still, she can’t help but feel a flutter in her chest every time she remembers the way Natasha smiled at her, the way Wanda couldn’t help but blush instantaneously under the exhilarating weight of her gaze, the way her sanguine presence seemed to envelop Wanda in such security and felicity and _warmth_. 

She falls into bed that night exhausted and drained, barely aware of the distant shuffling sounds echoing from down the hall that punctuate Pietro’s late night activities (whatever he does when it’s 4 in the morning and the rest of the world is asleep)—sleep takes her like a blessed absolution then, the faintest hint of a smile curving her lips when she dreams of cinnamon and a field of blooming honeysuckles and eyes so green she’s more than contented enough to drown in them. 

— —


	2. grocery shopping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Wanda's day off, and she plans to make it count. 
> 
> Somewhere along the way, she runs (quite literally) into an unexpectedly familiar face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sdlkfsdlkfj had inspiration idk
> 
> i would say not to expect updates this quickly u know because life but um
> 
> anyways
> 
> enjoy:)

Wanda wakes with the sun—7:42am, according to the digital clock atop her wooden nightstand. 

(Today’s a rare day off work for her, and she’ll be damned if she doesn’t take advantage.) 

It’s bright out, and the incessant chirps of an apparently all-too-ecstatic bird filters through her open window like a never-ending alarm clock without a snooze button, and, still, she can’t find it in herself to be annoyed in the slightest—not when there’s still the faintest trace of honeysuckle and cinnamon pervading her nostrils, and a vivid recollection of too-green eyes and a devastatingly attractive red-lipped smirk that does all too well to render the rest of it blissfully meaningless. 

She thinks of her as she showers and gets dressed, thinks of the way Natasha rolled the ‘R’ of ‘Romanov' as the hot spray hits her naked back, as she dresses herself hastily in a navy-blue long-sleeved dress and her favorite pair of matching thigh-high stockings—she can’t help but wonder what Natasha would think as she stops before the full-length mirror hung upon her door to take in her reflection: light mascara serving as the only hint of makeup upon her bleary-eyed features, cheeks slightly flushed, the swishing hem of her dress tickling her mid-thighs, long brown locks swept up into a rather haphazard bun atop her head. 

There’s not a crazy amount of things that she needs to do today—just a bit of grocery shopping (they’re out of milk and eggs and bread and those American Pop-Tart quote-unquote ‘breakfast’ snacks Pietro loves so much), and maybe a couple hours at the coffee shop down the street, if she can manage it… she’s been searching desperately for time to draw all throughout the past week, not that she’s found any as of yet. 

She ponders that as she’s walking down the sidewalk, keeping her head bowed slightly and avoiding eye contact on her way to the marketplace, because she’s not a particularly talented artist, she doesn’t think—she doesn’t do any kind of paints, or sculpting, and she thinks her last attempt at utilizing charcoal was subpar at best… Either way, it’s something she enjoys—drawing, that is. 

She draws everything and anything—flowers, preternatural beings, angel wings… real people and places, too, on occasion. (Only the ones who matter, like Pietro and their mother and Sokovia before it dissolved in a wreckage of absolute devastation.)

She draws, and she keeps it all in a little (well, not that little, she supposes) booklet—it’s about half the size of a standard piece of notebook paper, if she had to guess. Most of the pages are still blank, of course, but she’s done well to pour every piece of herself onto the first handful of pages, whether that be the heavy-browed look of concentration her twin oftentimes wears when he’s really put off by something, or the rectangular three-story structure wherein which the two of them used to attend school (or, whatever passed for ’school’ in a dying third-world country), or the sweeping pair of angelic wings she used to pray would fly her up and away from all the madness (they never did). 

She stumbles through the supermarket doorway in something of a daze, barely cognizant of the automatic doors sliding apart with a low metallic hum to grant her entrance, instinctively plucking an all-black plastic basket from the stack to her right as she wanders vaguely towards the dairy section—she’s still thinking of her drawings, about the angular lines of Pietro’s sharp features, though she’ll admit it’s all overshadowed in pitiful majority by a markedly softer (though unquestionably elegant) face with sweeping lashes and quasi-dimpled cheeks and green eyes that twinkle like waning candles of a brilliant golden menorah. 

She’s grabbed a jug of milk (2%, because Pietro insists it’s better than all the rest), a 'family-size’ box of Pop-Tarts containing three different flavors (S’mores, Strawberry, and Cinnamon Brown Sugar—really, she just doesn’t bother asking anymore, because each of those “flavors” sound like the rough equivalent to rapid-onset diabetes for American teenagers all across the nation), a carton of chicken eggs, along with a couple bags of hazelnut coffee grinds for the next month (they’re running low, she’d noticed a couple days ago). 

She’s barely aware of it all (beyond the chill of the refrigerated aisle against her exposed skin), and she thinks her shoe might just be untied as she’s walking her way up to the checkout lines—but, she’s not thinking about that, and maybe that’s what causes her second infuriatingly public tumble in as many days, but, either way, she’s just not looking and she scarcely sees a blur of color before she’s crashing directly into something warm and solid, a strangled squeak escaping her throat as her muscles lock and she feels herself falling (_again_) in slow-motion, down and down and do—

She’s stopped (_again_) by the comforting warmth of a strong arm around her waist, a honeyed scent with the slightest hint of cinnamon filling her nostrils in the sweetest way—_Natasha_, her addled brain thinks instantaneously even as she’s sure she’s hallucinating, sure that there’s no _way_—

“You’re rather clumsy, aren’t you?” comes that throaty, silken voice just inches from her face, and Wanda’s breath catches in her throat as her eyes flutter open only to be met with—

_Jesus_.

She wonders how Natasha’s evergreen eyes have gotten even greener, how the warmth of the woman’s breath ghosting across Wanda’s lips is the most euphoric sensation she’s ever felt, how she can’t help but reflexively _melt_ into Natasha’s sure embrace like she’s finally coming back to something (some_one_, really) she’s been missing like a piece of herself for far too long… like she’s _home_.

(God, she needs to take an Aspirin.)

Wanda gulps then as Natasha’s green-eyed gaze narrows in upon her, as her thoughts race even more violently than before in such a way that has her feeling pitifully lightheaded and almost _dizzy_ under its unwavering dominion.

“I—Y-Yes,” she stammers, feeling an all-too-familiar blush rising in her cheeks, heating her face until she thinks she might as well just burst into flames right here and now. 

And, still, Natasha’s face remains mere inches from hers, green eyes focused intently upon Wanda’s, the slightest hint of that wholly _devastating_ smirk curving full red lips even as her other hand comes up to Wanda’s forearm to steady her, the redhead’s touch something electric that sends sparks of excitement coursing throughout Wanda’s body. 

“Well, I suppose it’s lucky I was here again, hm?” Natasha questions with a knowing note to her tone, and Wanda positively thrills at the way Natasha’s arm stays wrapped around her waist, holding her steady even as the sound of idle chatter around the indoor market fills her ears. 

“L-Lucky, yes,” Wanda gasps out breathlessly, idly feeling the groceries in her weighty basket shift ever so slightly, the metal handles beginning to dig into the soft pale flesh at the crook of her elbow even as the power of Natasha’s too-green gaze effortlessly succeeds in rendering her weakened limbs entirely useless. “What are you, um, doing here, Na—_Ms._ R-Romanov?” she eventually stammers out, cursing herself for her slip even as Natasha’s confident smirk widens into a charming grin and she feels Natasha’s gaze lower to take in her flowing dress and thigh-high stockings on either leg. 

“It’s Natasha, please, darling,” she corrects graciously, and Wanda can scarcely manage a nod in response as the woman continues on in that ridiculously silky voice: “And, as for what I’m doing here… Well, it’s the same as you, I’d imagine. Shopping, no?”

Wanda’s jaw slackens and her throat feels dry; all the same, she swallows thickly as best she can and tries for another jerky nod (she doesn’t think she executes it all that well). “Y-Yes, I—Yes,” she murmurs back in reply, doing her best to be subtle as she eyes the (insanely attractive) outfit Natasha’s wearing (blue jeans that cling tightly to shapely thighs, shiny black heels that allow her to tower over Wanda by a couple inches, and a loose short-sleeved crisp white blouse buttoned less than three-quarters of the way up to allow for a purely mouthwatering peek at smooth milky-pale skin and the hypnotic swell of full breasts).

(Again, she doesn’t think she does all that well.)

She briefly takes note of the sleek matte-black tote bag on Natasha’s opposite arm, the way fiery-red locks tumble gracefully over either of Natasha’s shoulders—_God, she’s a vision_, Wanda thinks. 

“Do you have today off, if you don’t mind my asking?”

Wanda nods shyly. “Yes, Ms. R—_Natasha_,” she rushes hastily to correct herself, blushing deeply as visible amusement sparkles in Natasha’s eyes. “I, um—“ she halts herself, willing herself to stop talking, _now_, “W-We were out of milk,” she finishes lamely, the flush in her cheeks increasing tenfold when Natasha quirks a single brow, Wanda’s words (apparently) having piqued her interest.

“‘We’?” she repeats evenly, a strange look in her eye that has Wanda shuddering involuntarily in place even as she remains entirely unsure why she does it. 

“Um, I—Yes! I-I—I… " Wanda trails off, desperately racking her brain for the words even as something within her revels in the way Natasha’s green irises seem to soften (if only a little) as she speaks: “My brother, Pietro,” she rambles on, unable to stop herself now that she’s begun. “We are twins, but he… he likes to remind me quite often that he is 12 minutes older.”

“And is he?”

“Hm?” Wanda hums with a slight frown. 

“12 minutes older,” Natasha clarifies, a teasing tinge to her voice. 

“Oh!” Wanda starts, feeling the blush in her cheeks returning with a vengeance with every second Natasha’s eyes spend fixed intently upon her. “I, um… Yes, he is, unfortunately.”

Natasha lets out a chuckle then, free and low and _beautiful_; Wanda thinks briefly that she’s never heard something so effortlessly marvelous in her entire life. 

“Well,” Natasha begins, quietly clearing her throat, her arm loosening around Wanda’s waist as she beckons wordlessly just up ahead, where (Wanda’s only just realizing this now) the jaded middle-aged cashier is watching them with exhausted yet expectant eyes, evidently waiting for one of them to approach and pay for their groceries. “After you?”

Wanda ducks her head bashfully but gives a slight nod, forcing herself to extricate from Natasha’s strong embrace and nearing the cashier with what she hopes is a suitably apologetic expression. 

“Sorry,” Wanda whispers hoarsely out to the man—Jerry, the name tag pinned upon his red vest (emblazoned with the store’s logo) says—even as she’s painfully aware of Natasha’s presence just behind her, the rhythmic click of her heels as she trails Wanda up to the cash register. 

The man doesn’t react beyond a subtle twitch of his left eye and the barest hint of a sigh from thin lips. “How are you today, Ma’am?” he asks flatly, like he really couldn’t care less (Wanda doesn’t blame him for that), his tone gravelly and rough—probably a smoker, Wanda guesses, though it isn’t really her business anyhow.

Still, she offers a shy smile and a nod and a “Good, thank you; how are you?” as she begins setting her items up onto the conveyer belt with noticeably shaky hands. 

“Fine,” the man mumbles noncommittally back, watching with dull blue eyes as she finally sets her last two items (the milk and the oversized blue Pop-Tarts box) up as well. “Do you have a rewards card with us?” he rumbles in a bored voice, beginning to take the groceries and scan them (Wanda hears a pleasant _beep!_ with every one). 

Wanda shakes her head. “No, I do not.”

The man doesn’t respond, leaning forward slightly to snag the jug of milk (dotted with evaporative drops of water) and the Pop-Tarts in either hand, scanning one after the other with expeditious efficiency. (_Beep! Beep!_ ) 

(Clearly, this man has worked here for a relatively long time.)

Clearing his throat and turning to punch a couple of numbers into the monitor to his right, he makes a small humming noise before turning back to Wanda. “Your total will be—“

“I’ve got it,” Natasha interjects smoothly, having spontaneously appeared (seemingly out of thin air) at Wanda’s side before the counter, already offering the man a matte-black card gripped absentmindedly between impeccably-done clear-coated nails, apparently oblivious to Wanda’s open-mouthed gaping.

Wanda feels her face flush. “Natasha—“

Natasha places a hand upon her forearm, and Wanda immediately snaps her jaw shut. “Relax, darling. It’s my treat,” she purrs out almost _seductively_ before turning back to the bored-looking man across the counter and continuing in a business-like tone: “Hello—I’d like to add this young lady’s total to my own. Here’s my card.”

Wanda watches in a daze as the man huffs out a not-so-subtle sigh but accepts the card just the same, reluctantly proceeding to scan two other items (presumably both Natasha’s, though Wanda hadn’t seen her pull them out, much less put them up on the counter for scanning): an expensive-looking bottle filled with an amber-y molasses-colored liquor and sealed with red wax around its neck, and a small, round, pink, endlessly-plushy-looking cartoon-designed kitten attached to a silver keychain. 

_Pietro would love that_, Wanda thinks idly whilst she watches Natasha smiling politely at the cashier as he goes about calculating their combined total. _It would be great for the kids_. 

“You like stuffed animals?” Natasha questions neutrally as the man swipes her all-black card (with ’Natasha Romanoff’ stenciled out in neat white lettering—Wanda wonders briefly why she uses the American-ized moniker of her surname rather than the original).

Wanda can feel herself biting her lip, knows she’s already unwillingly communicating the answer without saying it. “I—Yes.”

Natasha’s gaze remains soft and open… _kind_, barely looking at the man as he hands her back the card and she plucks it deftly from his grasp. “Me too,” she says simply then with a lopsided smirk, turning back to give the man a nod before refilling her tote and grabbing the plastic bag filled with Wanda’s groceries, gesturing with an outstretched arm for Wanda to go first through the cramped aisle. 

Wanda ducks her head again but does, speed walking to the very end of the aisle before hastily turning back, an impulsive question resting upon the tip of her tongue. 

(She begs herself to retain it.)

Natasha approaches her with a quirked brow, and Wanda can see from the knowing look in Natasha’s ridiculously green eyes that she isn’t doing very well to hide her burning curiosity. 

“What is it, darling girl?” Natasha questions simply, tilting her head ever-so-slightly to the right. 

Wanda breaks immediately, the words, “Doyouwantotogosomewherewithme?” coming out in a graceless rush even as Natasha’s brow creeps further and further towards her hairline and Wanda can feel herself blushing horribly in response. 

“Slow down,” Natasha requests—_demands_, really, as the redheaded steps closer until they’re mere inches apart (_again_), the honeyed scent of her hitting Wanda in tidal waves of pleasant sweetness, and really, she can’t help but find the whole thing endlessly attractive even as she _knows_ she shouldn’t. “Now, let’s try that again, shall we?”

“I—You—"

Wanda halts herself instantly as Natasha gives her a stern look, something almost _predatory_ sparkling in forest-green irises that has a quasi-familiar warmth settling itself lower and lower in Wanda’s gut—_God, this can’t be happening_.

“I… wanted to ask,” Wanda sounds out (slowly this time), reveling in the subtle quirk of Natasha’s lips as she does that tells her she’s doing well (though she’ll most certainly have to examine in great detail later on why exactly it means so much to her that Natasha, a woman Wanda has only just met, is proud of her), “if you’d, um, like to come to the coffee shop with me? It’s, um—It’s stupid, really, I just—It’s just a couple blocks down, and I, um, go there sometimes ‘cause I like to—Well, that doesn’t really matter, I—I’m sorry, I—"

“Wanda,” Natasha stops her with a single word, and she can’t help but gape uselessly in response, because, _Natasha really remembered my name?_ “I would love to.”

_Holy shit_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> skfjdlsjfl flustered wanda gives me liFE


	3. the coffee shop

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk man im in the middle of a mental breakdown right now like do yall know that scene from schitt's creek where they all find a positive pregnancy test and subsequently think alexis is pregnant and theyre talking about it and david's all 'yea i mean i noticeD that she was a lil grumpy, but i assumed that that was just because right now, her personal life is like a steaming pile of sh-' and johnny jumps in like 'sOMEONe needs to talk to her!!'
> 
> my brain keeps playing the 'her personal life is like a steaming pile of sh-' because like. i've never come across anythign more accurate?? abt how im feeling irght now???????
> 
> look i havent slept more than four hours in three days im a mess rn
> 
> anyways. heres an update sdflkjlkjdf

It’s pretty outside—sunny, with the barest hint of a typical California breeze. (Wanda loves it.)

They walk side by side upon the sidewalk (though Natasha downright insists on walking the side closer to the bustling street no matter how much Wanda blushes and insists that she really, _really_ doesn’t have to), chatting idly about this and that and everything in between—more than once, Wanda catches herself rambling in a way she seldom (or never, really) does to anyone who isn’t Pietro, and when she stumbles gracelessly over something she hopes at least vaguely resembles an apology, Natasha stops her every time with a single raised (and immaculately done) brow and a dazzling smile, graciously assuring her that “I enjoy listening to you talk, darling—please, do continue.”

(Wanda’s never quite sure how to respond to that—she thinks that, at the rate she’s going thus far, her reddened cheeks will never return to the same shade of alabaster pale they used to be.

Honestly, though, she’s not so sure she minds that, so long as Natasha keeps looking at her like _that_ and calling her ‘darling’ and hanging on to Wanda’s every word as if she really, truly cares about what Wanda has to say.)

They get to the coffee shop (a little run down, hole-in-the-wall place with shortened barstools for chairs and rickety tables and faux flower arrangements in empty vodka bottles); Natasha holds the door for her with a confident grin, and Wanda has to duck her head in a (rather futile) attempt to hide the heated blush spreading across her cheeks as she shyly thanks her and forges ahead into the familiar, charmingly decorated space, Natasha following closely behind.

Von’s at the counter (like always), a friendly (and _very_ smile-y) man with cocoa-bean-brown skin and black wire-rimmed square-shaped glasses upon his wide-bridged nose; he brightens visibly when he sees Wanda, giving her a wave and a blindingly-white grin—just like he always does. 

“Wanda, girl, what’s up?” he calls out jovially as she approaches the counter with Natasha in tow, a permanent blush staining her cheeks. “How you been?”

Wanda ducks her head bashfully at his charisma but affords him a genuine smile just the same, darting her gaze up to meet his for a second or two before fixing them intently upon the brown linoleum counter between them. “Hi, Von,” she greets mildly, absentmindedly tucking a stray lock of long chestnut hair behind her ear, only somewhat aware of the couple sitting off at a table in the corner (the only inhabitants of the little shop at the current moment). “I’ve been okay. How are you?”

“I’m good, girl; you know me,” he replies with gusto, and Wanda fights the urge to shrink in place as she can practically _see_ him sizing up Natasha beside her, knowing that any minute now he’ll ask— “Who’s your friend?”

_There it is_.

Wanda fights the urge to shift in place as two sets of expectant eyes turn to look at her. “Th-This is, um… Natasha.”

“’S a pretty name,” Von remarks—though, this time, it’s flatter, noticeably devoid of his earlier charm. 

Wanda feels Natasha stiffen ever-so-slightly beside her. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. … ?" Natasha trails off, cordial and hospitable as ever, though there’s a certain steel underlying her silky inflection. (It sends a not entirely unpleasant shiver down Wanda’s spine, not even to mention how it reinforces the warmth that’d been steadily settling lower and lower in her gut since their impromptu interaction at the supermarket.)

Von’s quiet for a protracted moment—enough to make it somewhat awkward, but not unbearably so. (Not that Wanda would know the difference, anyhow—she’s never been all that good with people.)

“My friends call me Von. You can call me Devon,” he intones eventually, palpable hesitancy dripping from every word.

(Wanda can’t help but bite her lip and wish that the ground would swallow her whole.)

She feels a warm hand upon hers—Natasha’s, she realizes quickly, and snaps her head up to meet a pair of soothing jade-green eyes, Von entirely forgotten for the moment. 

“I’ll leave you with your friend,” Natasha tells her, quiet but firm, her face mere inches away—Wanda can’t help but feel a flare of panic rising in her chest at the words. "Order me whatever you’d like, darling. Are we sitting outside or in?”

Wanda blinks, wholly floored from the abrupt 180° her life has (apparently) taken spanning just the past five minutes or so. “W-What?”

Natasha just smiles at that, warm and comforting and _open_. (It immediately sets Wanda at ease.) “I’ll grab us a table while you place the order and catch up with your friend. Would you like to sit outside, or in?”

“I—Um, wh-whichever you prefer,” Wanda stutters back, more heat flooding her cheeks as Natasha’s sanguine grin widens. 

“Consider it done,” she muses, before turning to Von, the wide smile not wavering from her gorgeous features. “It was wonderful to meet you, Devon,” she ventures assuredly, (Von affords her a curt nod at that) then promptly turns on her heel and walks off (presumably) in search of a table for the two of them, leaving a slack jawed Wanda gaping helplessly after her and <strike>absolutely _not_</strike> staring at how sinfully _incredible_ her ass looks in those jeans. 

… _Wow_. 

— — 

Wanda orders her usual—a hot Chai tea latte (which Von hands to her with a meaningful but entirely indiscernible look upon his round features), and the same for Natasha; she brings them back with her, nerves churning unpleasantly in her gut all the while. 

It hasn’t gotten any better by the time she’s reached Natasha’s chosen table (tucked away in the very corner of the shop): the hot drinks tremble slightly in her hands as she sets them down atop the black circular tabletop, and her heart thuds painfully against her ribcage as she sinks gracelessly into the seat opposite an ever-pleasant Natasha whose catlike green eyes haven’t left her since they entered the shop, and seem as if they won’t be doing so any time soon. 

(A part of her revels in the attention, even as she knows the dire consequences of it—the consequences of someone seeing all of her, seeing _everything_, because God help her but she knows she’s always been a mess of a person to begin with, and she knows how people tend to take one look at that and leave.

She can’t say that she blames them for that, though.)

“I, um, just got you wh-what I always get,” she stammers out, feeling a blush rising upon her cheeks as Natasha eyes her with apparent interest, “wh-which is a Chai latte b-but I d-don’t know that you’ll like it, I j-just didn’t know what else to—“

“Wanda, darling girl—please, take a breath,” Natasha encourages, though (again) there’s a certain steel that lies almost (but not quite) dormant beneath that sultry tone—Wanda’s not sure if it’s that, or maybe the fact that Natasha’s just called her ‘darling’ _again_ in a way that leaves Wanda positively reeling in its wake, or maybe (likely) a dazzling combination of the two; either way, her jaw snaps shut and she immediately halts her speech as if on command, then tilts her head and lifts her chin in order to give Natasha her full, undivided attention, everything about her posture practically _begging_ for approval, for some sign that she’s doing well in Natasha’s eyes. (She’s rather hard pressed right now to find any reason why literally anything else should matter more, even as she knows she’ll be kicking herself for it later.)

“What did you order for me, дорогая?” she continues smoothly on, and Wanda thinks her mind literally collapses in on itself upon hearing that (presumably) Russian term of endearment (?) rolling off Natasha’s tongue—she merely gapes helplessly back, baffled and entirely thrown even as Natasha adds: “It smells divine.”

She’s not sure how long passes like that, to be perfectly honest: Natasha eyeing her expectantly with a quirked brow and the barest hint of a knowing smirk; Wanda staring back, slack-jawed and utterly _useless_—either way, it certainly _feels_ like a distinctively substantial length of time before her brain starts (somewhat) functioning again and she manages to sputter, “A—Ch-Chai tea lat-latte, I—My—I-It’s my favorite… drink.”

The amusement twinkling in Natasha’s striking green eyes only seems to grow, dimples showing beneath her regal cheekbones, and Wanda inwardly revels at the sight of it even as she thinks her face might literally be ablaze right now, what with how deeply she’s blushing. 

“I—I mean, you—I-I’m not sure i-if you’ll l-like it,” Wanda rambles, her hands coming up to make vague and hurried gestures as she speaks (an anxious habit of hers), "you know, and I-I didn’t want to assume, I just—"

She scarcely sees what happens next, much less registers the notable speed with which Natasha’s hands lunge out to tangle with her ring-clad fingers, effectively stopping her ample profusion of nervous movement with rather jarring ease—still, she returns to herself moments later, her trembling hands resting contentedly beneath Natasha’s upon the black-painted tabletop between them, Natasha’s intent green-eyed gaze upon her all the while. 

_Fuck_. “S-Sorry,” Wanda murmurs shyly, desperately fighting the powerful urge to duck her head under the weight of Natasha’s stare, “I—"

“There’s no need for an apology, precious girl,” Natasha drawls lazily in that ridiculously attractive low tone of hers, and Wanda feels her heart skip a beat in her chest. “I find your rambling endlessly appealing, I assure you.”

Wanda blinks. “O… O-Okay.”

Natasha’s smile widens, baring straight white teeth—_God, she’s gorgeous_, Wanda thinks. “Okay.”

_Jesus_. 

— —


	4. apartment 2C

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second half of the coffee date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did i edit this? no
> 
> do i have time to edit this? also no
> 
> sorry?

They stay at Wanda’s favorite hole-in-the-wall coffee shop for hours—talking and laughing and _smiling_ at one another over the lids of their respective drinks. 

(Wanda thinks, briefly, that if she dies now, she’ll die happy—happier than she’s been in a very long time, at the very least; that’s for sure.)

She learns that Natasha is a good 28 years old to her own 22, that she was born and raised in a relatively small city in Russia called Roslavl (Wanda thinks she nearly faints at the way it sounds coming off Natasha’s tongue) just west of Belarus, that she now does freelance work in finance on a global scale for both Stark Industries and (on occasion) Queen Consolidated…. oh, and this, too: that she owns a rather temperamental black cat named Liho who harbors a rather refined palate for only the most high-end organic tuna sold at the local Whole Foods. (Wanda thinks that that might just be the cutest thing she’s heard all day.)

And, in turn, Wanda tells Natasha about herself (though she’s careful not to reveal the more unsavory things that mar her and Pietro’s past, particularly keeping vague on the details of their life before coming to America): that she’s not in school any longer (she leaves out the part about her dropping out midway through undergrad to look after her and Pietro); that her zodiac sign is Pisces (because evidently that’s become a rather important tidbit to know about people you care for as of late); that she thinks that she’d like to be an artist someday, even if she’s quite sure she’ll never have the raw skill and talent such a profession would inevitably require of her. 

(Maybe in another life, she thinks… if those really do exist.)

Wanda doesn’t draw, doesn’t even take out her sketchbook from the mini burgundy backpack she brings everywhere with her on days off—instead, she’s simply mesmerized (and more than content to be just that): staring into Natasha’s impossibly green eyes and laughing at things she genuinely does find funny and sipping her Chai latte at a snail’s pace in some desperate hope that maybe it’ll make this moment last just a little (or a lot) longer because God help her but she isn’t quite sure she wants it to end just yet. 

(Maybe not ever.)

— — 

She gets home when the golden sun is only just beginning to set in the sky above, brilliant crimsons and lilacs tracing the heavens—Wanda wishes fleetingly that she might be able to draw it one of these days… or, perhaps utilizing paint would be a slightly more reasonable medium, though Wanda’s never painted a thing in her life and she doesn’t quite know where in the world she’d even begin. 

Natasha walks her home (because, of _course_ she does), and Wanda forgets to be embarrassed about the spattering of various technicolored illegible signatures in differing styles of graffiti adorning the grey-painted front door to the quote-unquote “lobby” (it was more of a hall, and even that was probably being somewhat generous) of her apartments—at least, that is, until she’s there, and because Natasha’s insisted up and down that she’s absolutely determined to walk Wanda straight to her door, Wanda knows she’s not getting out of it as she fumbles anxiously with her keys and flushes under Natasha’s gentle stare and does everything to keep her composure whilst she busies herself with the task of clumsily unlocking the door for the both of them to amble on through. 

“M-My apartment is just up on th-the third floor,” she stammers out, gesturing vaguely towards the flights of stairs just before them and flushing horribly as Natasha watches her flounder with apparent interest, "s-so—“

“Lead the way, дорогая,” Natasha coaxes silkily, the Russian term of endearment falling off her tongue like freshwater over those Niagara Falls (the sight that the Americans always swore was so divine), and God help her but Wanda can’t find it in herself to do anything but give a flustered nod in response.

“O-Okay.” 

— — 

Three flights of stairs later finds Wanda’s lungs burning like an asthmatic’s after a full-length marathon (though she does her very damndest to hide it, since Natasha appears as perfectly unbothered as ever—damn her, but she's probably in _amazing_ shape… Wanda isn’t quite sure why she’d ever deign to expect anything less). 

“Th-This, um,” she halts herself to not-so-subtly inhale another gulp of fresh air, desperate to quell the rather efficacious burning in her lungs before nodding shyly towards the white-painted wooden door bearing the label of ‘2C’ in golden lettering just a handful of feet off the landing. “This is it.”

Natasha’s warm smile only widens, verdant green eyes twinkling in a way that makes Wanda wish they could stay suspended in time like this forever. “You’re truly precious, darling.”

There’s not much she can do in reply beyond blush furiously under Natasha’s bemused gaze, and she’ll admit she’s not quite sure how much time passes whilst the two of them remained so magnificently stagnant like that. Still, she pushes through it (eventually) and turns to the door, ignoring the way her hands tremble and her chest heaves as she fits her key in the lock and prays silently to a god she doesn’t believe in that Pietro isn’t back quite yet from his job as an instructor down at the local primary school quite yet. 

(She’s not quite sure how her somewhat… volatile twin would react to the sight of Wanda arriving back with… well, with _Natasha_.

He’d always been somewhat overbearing and protective, undoubtedly the more hotheaded of the two of them—and heaven knew that that had only heightened immeasurably since the two of them had come to the States seeking refuge.)

It’s dark when she opens the door (a good sign), but Pietro’s worn-down white high-top Converse are sprawled haphazardly upon the tile (an undoubtedly ill-fated sign)—still, at first glance there’s no sign of her charismatic counterpart, and she sends up a wordless plea to the heavens that it’ll stay that way as she turns back to face an ever-pleasant Natasha standing calmly at her doorstep.

It’s like looking at art, Wanda thinks—it’s like _Natasha’s_ art, even under the low-lit gloom of the building's third-floor corridor, and Wanda’s ring-clad fingers itch restlessly at her sides with the inexplicable urge to produce her likeness upon the roughened surface of blank-slate cartridge paper so that she might never forget it. She yearns to sketch the catlike shape of those evergreen eyes, the full Cupid’s bow of her wine-red lips, each and every curve of that bewitchingly trim figure—even if she’s quite sure that she’ll never be able to do justice to a being so exquisite, no matter how intently she tries. 

“So, um… " she trails off lamely, sure that the heated blush in her face has long since visibly reached the tips of either ear by now—Natasha’s close proximity most certainly isn’t helping, only inches of space between the two of them from where they stand. “I-I guess this is it, huh?”

Natasha merely quirks a single brow, that lopsided smirk never fading from her gorgeous features. “When do you work again, красивая?”

Wanda blinks, trying to think. “I—Um, tomorrow? I-I work the night shift.”

Natasha nods, tilting her head ever-so-slightly to the left as she regards Wanda with that unapologetically bemused grin dimpling her cheeks. “And when is that, if I might ask?”

“Um—8 pm.”

“Can I pick you up at 7?”

Wanda nearly does a double take at that, eyes widening, brain ceasing all function for a good second or two. “W-What?”

Natasha chuckles. “I’d like to give you a ride, if that’s alright.”

“O-_Oh!_ I—I mean, you don’t _need_ to, it’s—"

“It would be my pleasure.”

Wanda gawks. “I—You—O-Okay."

“Хорошо,” Natasha murmurs in reply (though more to herself than to Wanda), and Wanda thinks her brain well and truly ceases all function—for good this time—at the sound of it. “I had a wonderful time today, Wanda.”

Wanda ducks her head, her blush only intensifying by the second as she bashfully darts her gaze up to meet Natasha’s. “I did, too.”

— —

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> дорогая | _dorogaya_ | darling (term of endearment)  
красивая | _krasiivaya_ | beautiful  
хорошо | _harasho_ | good


	5. home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wanda talks with her brother, and does some thinking. (Mostly about Natasha.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> didnt really edit this, but someone ask about this story and wanted to get something out!
> 
> also i have a shit ton of homework this weekend

Wanda is awoken early (6:42am, to be precise, according to the blocky silver clock atop her nightstand) by the reverberating _squeak!_ from down the hall (something that happened every time Pietro or Wanda absentmindedly forgot about the relative fragility of the apartment’s metal shower handles, and yanked at the squeaky knobs a little too forcefully in their haste to attain hot water) followed promptly by the tell-tale sound of water running through the pipes in the walls. 

Typically, she’d hear the indicatory sound, rouse herself even if only for the briefest of moments to deduce that it was, in fact, just Pietro going about his daily morning routine before swiftly falling back into a blissful sleep until her alarm went off sometime in the early afternoon and she found herself having to stir for work later that night. 

Today, though, is different. 

It doesn’t _feel_ different, of course, when the screech of the shower handles reaches her from down the hall and awakens Wanda from a restful slumber (though not without uttering an admittedly rather crabby, unladylike groan into her pillow)—but she’s rolling over with another suppressed groan and shoving the other side of her face persistently back into her pillow, fully prepared to let sleep take her so that she can get some rest before work tonight, at which point she’ll be getting a ride with—

At which point she’ll be getting a ride with _Natasha_. 

_Holy shit_. 

_Holy shit_. 

The delayed realization jolts her fully awake with an unintelligible curse, her body suddenly buzzing with nervous energy even as a potent haze of compelling drowsiness persists—it’s a strange feeling, she thinks, to be so undeniably alight with nerves and apprehensive excitement and yet so distinctly dazed just the same, positively lethargic beneath the lingering pull of unconsciousness on her sluggish brain. 

She rolls out of bed a couple moments later with a malcontented moan, blinking sleepily to clear her vision and smiling ever-so-slightly at the last vestiges of violet dawn visibly fading into a paler shade of xanthous daylight through the rectangular window upon the right adjacent wall. 

She thinks she might try drawing something, once she’s seen Pietro off—she doubts she’ll find herself able to get to sleep afterwards, anyhow, not with thoughts of impossibly green eyes and plump red-painted lips and _Natasha_ on her mind.

_God, I'm so screwed_, she thinks. 

— — 

Pietro doesn’t shower for long—he never does, and she doesn’t either, because they really can’t afford their water bill for the month to be any higher than it typically is. (Because, maybe an even $100—give or take $10 or so—doesn’t sound all that bad in theory, but it’s quite another to be adding that $100 to their monthly rent of $1950 in practice, and they’re already struggling as is.)

Wanda’s out in the kitchen by the time he’s done, sitting cross-legged atop the countertop (still dressed in the short black spandex and over-sized black-and-red-striped knockoff Zlatan Ibrahimović jersey she always wore to bed—Pietro loved watching reruns of the A.C. Milan football matches on Wanda’s laptop). 

He reappears clad only in a towel on his lower half, which makes Wanda roll her eyes, then proceeds to do a rather melodramatic double-take when he spots Wanda perched comfortably upon the kitchen counter, his intense dark brows rising to disappear amidst the dripping blonde locks (though they look rather brunette at the moment) plastered upon his forehead, a rather high-pitched yelp of consternation escaping him simultaneously. 

“Sister. You… are up early,” he chokes out once he’s managed to gather himself, then stumbles drowsily past her and into the kitchen in an attempt to (presumably) procure his daily bowl of diabetes-inducing sugar-loaded cereal from the cupboards, yawning audibly to himself all the while. “Do you have a date?”

Wanda feels her cheeks heat despite herself even as she easily snarks back, “You are funny.”

Pietro shrugs, setting the chestnut-brown box of Cocoa Puffs cereal (embellished with that infernally obnoxious large-beaked bird) atop the counter opposite Wanda and snagging a glass bowl from the cabinets just above the stove. “What is her name?”

Wanda blanches. “What?”

Pietro lets loose another yawn, pouring a substantial serving of Cocoa Puffs into his bowl and replying, “You are happier lately; you smile more often. You think I do not notice these things, but I do,” he rattles off, eventually setting the Cocoa Puffs aside in favor of turning to wrench open the silver door of the fridge just beside Wanda, likely in search of the milk. “So, what is her name?”

Wanda, after briefly debating the prospect of denying it further (and rather quickly deciding it isn’t worth the energy), bites her lip anxiously. “Natasha.”

“Pretty,” Pietro remarks, lazily pouring the 2% milk Wanda had bought just a day ago (with Natasha, no less) into his cereal-filled bowl. “Will I get to meet her soon?”

“I… am not sure,” Wanda answers tentatively, already reaching down to slide open the drawer beneath the counter and extract a spoon for Pietro’s breakfast from its meager contents—he approaches to pluck it from her hand with a lopsided smile before padding back over to his bowl upon the counter and bending crudely at the waist to begin shoveling the cereal into his mouth at warp speed whilst Wanda looks idly on, a slightly disapproving expression across her features. “It would not kill you to eat at the dining table, you know. That is what it is for, after all."

Her half-naked twin mumbles something unintelligible but overall appears to ignore her quip as he continues devouring the candied cereal with the haste of a man starved, and Wanda leaves it be—she thinks that she’s quite surpassed her quasi-parental quota for the day, anyhow. 

(Because, yes, maybe one of them had to be the "bigger person,” or whatever constituted as such a thing, from time to time; and yes, more often than not, that responsibility fell to Wanda by default, because Pietro’s sheer level of chronic disarray was dire enough to make hers look positively cosmopolitan in comparison… still, that most certainly didn’t mean she had to be any good at it.

And, she wasn’t—good at it, that is.) 

Time passes quickly, after that—Pietro finishes his cereal (then leaves his unwashed dishes in the sink with a cheeky grin despite Wanda’s murderous look), then sprints off to his room to throw on a school-appropriate outfit whilst Wanda remains perched atop the counter, preoccupied with <strike>daydreams of Natasha</strike> her plans for the rest of the week. 

He reappears moments later in khaki pants and a light-blue cashmere sweater, previously unruly damp hair combed into a decently presentable close-cropped style, a disgruntled scowl upon his angular features. 

(The last time he’d been oblivious enough to wear one of Wanda’s metal rock band tees to school for Casual Friday, one particularly impressionable 1st grade girl in Pietro’s class had burst promptly into tears upon being greeted with the sight of her cheerful teacher in a T-shirt bearing an admittedly rather explicit depiction of a bleeding skull.

According to a somewhat ill-tempered Pietro, it took _weeks_ for the girl’s authoritarian die-hard Christian mother to believe him when he assured her time and time again that he was not, in fact, secretly a disciple of Satanism attempting to covertly turn her blonde-haired blue-eyed daughter against God.)

“I hate teaching,” he grumbles petulantly, stomping grouchily past a smirking Wanda over to his pair of white Converse sneakers sprawled beside the door, snatching his brown messenger bag off the dining table on the way. 

“No, you do not,” Wanda corrects in a sing-song tone (because she’s right, and they both know it—Pietro loves those kids), then settles to bemusedly observe the way her brother hops erratically on one sock-clad foot near the door whilst attempting to pull on his shoes, each precarious hop punctuated with audible grunts. 

Pietro, after finally managing to get both Converse sneakers on his feet (though not without an undeniably entertaining degree of difficulty on his part), pries open the front door with one hand whilst the other secures the strap of his messenger bag upon his sweater-clad shoulder. 

“Have fun at school!” Wanda calls teasingly out to him as he goes. 

He doesn’t miss a beat: “Have fun on your date!” he retorts sardonically before quickly moving to shut the door securely behind him (Wanda makes a mental note to lock it in a moment, knowing he’ll probably forget like he always does) in order to discourage any further argumentation on Wanda’s part. 

_Asshole_. 

— — 

The morning crawls by at an absolutely agonizing pace, grating on her limited patience like little else ever could—Wanda can’t help wondering briefly what in the world she’s done to warrant such a thing. 

Pietro had left around… 7:30am or so to get to the primary school a handful of blocks down before 8:00am; since then, Wanda had showered, washed (_and_ blow-dried _and_ straightened) her hair, cleaned every single room in their small apartment, and counted to 100 out loud no less than four separate times… and it's only 10:44am.

Sighing heavily to herself, she snatches her sketchbook and a mechanical pencil from her desk along with her key from the kitchen counter (and a couple other items) before stepping out of the apartment and into the communal hall, locking the door behind her with a satisfying _click!_

From there, she scales the next three flights of stairs up to the graffiti-covered door that leads directly out onto the roof, twisting the knob and pushing it open as carefully as she can manage. Painfully bright sunlight instantly floods her vision, and blaring noises from the city below floods her senses in such a way that would likely be rather overwhelming were it not accompanied by a cool ocean breeze that immediately puts Wanda at ease, and a truly breathtaking view of San Francisco all around that reminds her of just exactly why she came here, why she was always so keen on Pietro coming here with her, why she’s paying upwards of 2,000 American dollars each month when she could be paying far less to live most anywhere else in the States… because, this? 

This is happiness… and the best kind she’s ever known, at that.

This is _home_.

— —

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i think san francisco would be a cool place to live


	6. милая

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha arrives just before 7pm to pick Wanda up and give her a ride to work—just as she'd promised. 
> 
> As expected, Wanda's <strike>kind of</strike> really fucking nervous about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did the praise kink jump out on this one? maybe!
> 
> am i sorry about it? ... i mean, not really honestly

By the time 6:30pm rolls around (—or, whatever, 6:24pm; close enough), Wanda’s a wreck. 

She’s sketched a billion things (none of which seem to even remotely resemble something she could ever be proud of), cleaned every single room in the small apartment at least ten times over, and to make matters exponentially more stress-inducing (as if she needed such a thing to begin with), she thinks she’s about two seconds away from spiraling into a decidedly unsavory nervous collapse, one she most certainly won’t be able to manage (much less contain) by the time Natasha gets here in less than _30 fucking minutes_. 

She’s dressed for work—which, that’s something, she supposes: short black suede uniform skirt that only barely reaches mid-thigh (one of three in her closet that she cycles through spanning the work week), form-fitting white Oxford blouse (buttoned just low enough that Angela won’t feel the need to give her another of those signature glares when she enters the restaurant for her shift), and her trusty worn-down pair of black high-top Converse laced carefully up on either foot. 

(It’s comforting, to a certain degree. Routine.)

Still, she’s pacing agitatedly back and forth betwixt the kitchen counters, the rubber soles of her sneakers likely quite close to burning holes in the hardwood flooring beneath her, intrusive thoughts of absolutely heartbreaking inadequacy steadily wearing down what little remains of her meager resolve, because Wanda is Wanda and Natasha is _Natasha_ and that… is not even. _They_ are not even. (Not by a long shot.)

Natasha has a fancy all-black credit card with a shiny silver chip; Wanda has a flimsy plastic blue-and-white debit card (that she shares with Pietro, mind you) with the 3-digit security code completely faded off beneath the thin black swiper stripe on its backing. 

Natasha was wearing a whole goddamned _suit_ the night that they met, complete with a midnight-black blazer that looked like it cost easily more than Wanda’s monthly rent and a fleece-white pocket square atop her breast that Wanda might’ve deemed pretentious were it literally any other patron at the restaurant; Wanda was wearing a $50 skirt Pietro shoplifted for her from Nordstrom’s and a $35 blouse she managed to acquire for $26 after bartering (read: vehemently pleading) with the Taiwanese owner of the thrift store a couple streets down for a solid five minutes. 

Natasha has—

Her train of thought is halted rather abruptly by a confident knock upon the front door, causing Wanda to freeze instantaneously in place before whirling hastily around in place, eyes wide with panic. 

_Shit_.

It’s Natasha. It _has_ to be. 

_Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit_.

“Coming!” she calls out in a strangled tone, her voice cracking dismally on the second syllable, her feet suddenly feeling as if they’re encased in industrial-grade concrete as she makes herself shuffle over to the front door (making a concerted effort not to trip and face-plant along the way). 

_Shit_, she curses mentally, disengaging the lock and swinging the door open with trembling hands to reveal—

Natasha is there, standing outside Wanda’s door in a whole honest-to-God suit, _again_: neatly pressed black slacks and matching blazer (with a pocket square—this time a pretty pastel pinkish hue) over an impossibly soft-looking fleece-white cashmere sweater, along with a shiny pair of black heels (which Wanda is willing to bet are red-bottomed) on either foot. 

And, to top it all off, her long fiery red hair looks nothing short of amazing pulled up into a simple ponytail at the crown of her skull, wavy crimson locks tickling the back of her neck, stray carmine wisps tucked neatly behind either ear.

_Oh, fuck me_, she thinks.

She’s pulled rather abruptly out of her thoughts when a throaty chuckle reaches her ears from a bemused-looking Natasha. 

“All in good time, darling,” the gorgeous woman intones smugly, tilting her head ever-so-slightly to the right and fixing Wanda with an unreadable (but undeniably charmed) look, "and, only provided you ask nicely.”

Wanda blinks, taken aback, not quite sure what—

_Oh God_. “I… I, um—did I… say that… out loud?” she squeaks, cheeks set positively aflame with embarrassment—God, she wishes that the ground beneath would just open up and swallow her whole. 

Natasha merely chuckles again, that magnificent red-lipped smirk widening to reveal a dazzling row of perfect straight white teeth. “I’m afraid so, милая,” she confirms (though she sounds the farthest thing from genuinely apologetic) even as Wanda lets out a disparaged groan, both hands coming up to conceal her reddened face from view.

“I’m so embarrassed,” she mumbles into her hands (more to herself than to Natasha), the words near entirely unintelligible even unto her own ears. 

Natasha’s reply, surprisingly enough, is quick. Firm. “Don’t be,” she intones gently, and Wanda takes a moment to wonder briefly if Natasha has some latent form of super-hearing (though her hands still remain solidly across her face, successfully hiding her grievously inflamed cheeks from Natasha’s peering gaze), because, how the _hell_ did she hear that?

Wanda doesn’t justify that with a reply. 

A moment passes in silence, then two—eventually, though, Natasha is the one to break it, her tone even and almost… _disapproving_. (It leaves Wanda positively yearning to appease her for reasons she really can’t quite yet fathom.) “Wanda,” she admonishes, all quiet strength and boundless poise and the barest shred of mild-mannered chagrin. “Hands away from your face, sweet girl.”

A full-bodied shiver runs unbidden down Wanda’s spine even as an age-old inclination (one that readily revives a profusion of all-too-familiar memories, those saturated with fear and reluctance) keeps her standing rigidly in place.

“_Now_,” Natasha urges—demands, really, and Wanda has to swallow the whimper that attempts to escape her at the sheer esteem Natasha is demonstrating right now, more than enough to have something deep in Wanda’s very core aching to yield unto her iron will, to _submit_ at the proverbial (and possibly literal) feet of someone who knows better. 

(She thinks that maybe, just maybe, Natasha is that person—though she’s well aware that she sounds near insane for saying so about a woman she’s only just met.)

Something strange tingling low in her gut, she does—hesitantly lowering her hands from her face to reveal burning crimson cheeks, and bashfully lowering her gaze to fixate upon those shiny black heels adorning either of Natasha’s feet (—better than trying for eye contact with the intense green-eyed woman she can feel currently scrutinizing her with absolutely terrifying proficiency, Wanda thinks).

“Good,” Natasha praises—a strange, breathless quality to her usually so balanced tone that Wanda hesitates to think means that this is affecting her, too. 

(Because there’s no way… right? 

There’s no _way_ that Natasha feels even a fraction of the inexorable urgency roiling in her gut, the potent eagerness to please that seems to set every nerve ending in her being alight with nerves and excitement and something else she can’t quite place, something she already knows to possess a nature more intensely stimulating than anything else she’s ever known.)

“That’s better, isn’t it?” Natasha muses, her voice little more than a sweeping murmur from above. 

Unsure of whether or not the vaguely interrogatory statement is rhetorical, Wanda hazards a shaky nod, demure gaze still fixed immovably upon the elegantly pointed tips of Natasha’s polished obsidian heels—she feels well and truly disciplined; _chastised_, almost. 

(What’s more, there’s a not-so-insignificant piece of her that positively revels in it, the sensation of deferring so implicitly unto someone so tenacious, so authoritative and _sure_.) 

“Look at me, Wanda,” Natasha directs softly next, her hushed words surging over Wanda like the gentlest of ocean waves at low tide, rippling directly to the vacillating core of her very being and requesting—_commanding_, really—only the utmost degree of unadulterated submission. 

Swallowing thickly to herself, she does: tentatively raising her lowered gaze to meet Natasha’s piercing stare, setting her jaw as surely as she can manage, acting for all the world as if she feels a hell of a lot more self-assured than she does. 

(She doesn’t quite know why she bothers, really—she’s near positive that Natasha sees right through her decrepit attempt at concealment, and the perceptive spark glimmering in the older woman's intelligent green-eyed gaze only serves to further confirm Wanda's suspicion.)

“We _are_ going to talk about this,” Natasha asserts sedately, green eyes seeming to peer intently through Wanda’s as if _searching_, almost (—though for what, she isn’t quite sure). Wanda resists the powerful urge to shudder. “But, for now, I believe I promised you a ride to work, no? I would hate for you to be late on my account.”

Wanda gapes, by all accounts rather at a loss. _Is this woman for real?_ “I—Y-Yes, I will… " she manages to cough out eventually, struggling to keep her nervous gaze steadfastly upon Natasha’s all the while. "I just need to go grab my… bag.”

“You do that, darling girl. I‘ll wait,” she simpers sweetly, then (though an unmistakable trace of exigency remains in her saccharine tone), an indulgent grin dimpling her cheeks, as if that isn’t the most intimidating thing she’s said since the moment she arrived. 

(Wanda didn’t like knowing people were waiting on her—or, perhaps more accurately, she didn’t like knowing she was the primary _cause_ for said people being required to wait on her. 

It stresses her out, for lack of a better term—always has, always will. 

And, this? This is most certainly no exception; if anything, it's worse, because it's _Natasha_.

Natasha, who Wanda hungers so earnestly to please for reasons she still can’t quite decipher, to render the older woman _proud_ of her, because there’s something so base and fundamental within her telling that if she can manage to do just that, it won’t hurt so badly any more to handle all the rest: the leering men at her workplace, the haunting memories of a tragedy-ridden place she doesn’t dare to still call home, the intrinsic emotional and financial _strain_ of practically raising herself and Pietro entirely upon their own merit.

With Natasha, she wants to be perfect—or _feel_ perfect, anyhow. For _her_. 

She’s terrified to ponder for even a second longer upon just as to why that might be, upon what it all _means_ for her… for Natasha.

What scares her even worse is the realization that some part of her—a larger one than she’d care to admit, at that—_wants_ it, no matter how goddamned _scary_ it all is. 

And, perhaps scariest of all: the tiny whisper in the deepest recesses of her mind telling her that that consummate fear taking hold in the very pit of her stomach, the one urging her to run as far and as fast as she can away from Natasha, away from what Natasha can so effortlessly cause her to _feel_… that it only further augments the strange sensation accumulating in her chest—the craving, the fervor, the unmitigated _desire_. 

Wanda doesn’t quite know how to feel about it, never mind where in the world she should venture to start the undoubtedly painstaking process of disentangling it all.

Still, she has the strangest feeling that Natasha just might.)

— —

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> милая | _milaya_ | darling; sweetheart (term of endearment)
> 
> :) i liked writing this one a lot


	7. вопросы есть?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wanda gets a ride to work!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i got a littel carried away with this chapter but didn't think you guys would mind (hopefully)
> 
> uhhh and i promise i havent forgotten about this story! just took a bit of a writing break where motivation was just.... not on my side... u get it
> 
> also i put /12 for the chapter but i honestly don't know how long i'm makin git, i just think that trying to end it around 12 seems reasonable probably (i cannot stress enough how little of this i have planned sldfjkfj)
> 
> but anyways
> 
> as always let me know what you think!

Wanda can near instantaneously tell which car is Natasha’s as she timidly leads Natasha from the “lobby” of her apartment building and out onto the street: a sleek, unquestionably expensive-looking black-painted compact vehicle parked neatly against the curb amidst a ragtag assortment of automobiles (with easily less than half a foot of space between each), those of which are positively put to shame when likened unto the former. 

Wanda murmurs a Sokovian expletive under her breath as Natasha guides her with a sure hand at the small of her back up to the curb where they stop—Natasha (ever the gentlewoman, it seems) leans forward to open the passenger-side door for Wanda without flourish, then gestures with a subtle tilt of her head unto a wide-eyed Wanda for the younger woman to climb in. 

Wanda dutifully obeys the unspoken command, cheeks burning with shamefully sweet humiliation all the while.

She only scarcely registers the next sequence of events, her mind pleasantly hazy with a bizarre sort of subservient ethos in the best possible way—the door shutting behind her, Natasha strutting surely around the hood of the car before methodically opening the driver’s side door and sliding smoothly into place before the wheel, its black-leather center emblazoned with a polished black escutcheon-shaped logo inlaid with gold. 

(Wanda thinks it’s the trademark Lamborghini emblem, though she can’t quite be sure—she guesses it wouldn’t surprise her at this point, even if it’s still a rather fantastically hard-to-swallow thought that she might be sitting in a real, genuine, bona fide _Lamborghini_ right now, one that no doubt costs a hell of a lot more than she makes in a year.)

“Seat belt?” she questions, smirking at the slack-jawed and awestruck look that Wanda knows is likely written all across her bug-eyed features right now. 

Wanda just blinks. 

Natasha’s smirk widens at that, and there’s little hesitation (if any) to be found in her movements as she leans over the center console, outside hand reaching around Wanda’s slender shoulders to scrabble for purchase upon the neatly-sewn leather of the seat in search of the belt (which she finds a half a second later). Her other hand, meanwhile, comes up to grip the edge of the seat closest to Wanda’s head. Wanda does her very best to regulate her breathing (though understandably, it’s difficult with Natasha’s face just inches from hers and her strong, capable hands on either side of her). Natasha pulls the seatbelt across from her with nary a word, knuckles brushing Wanda’s skirt-clad waist as she secures it with an audible _click!_

“There you go,” she whispers, still leant over the center console well into Wanda’s personal space (not that Wanda minds), her warm breath ghosting across Wanda’s nose in a truly distracting manner that has Wanda instinctually clenching her thighs tighter together in some desperate attempt to quell the unanticipated spark of arousal flaring hotly in her gut—Natasha’s smirk only widens, and Wanda feels the heated blush in her cheeks worsen tenfold at the knowledge that she’s been caught. “Safe and sound.”

“T-T-Thanks,” Wanda stammers, breathing deeply even as Natasha leans back and into her own seat, clipping her seat belt buckle with steady hands and flashing Wanda another knee-weakening sidelong conspiratorial grin. (How she expects Wanda to function in the face of all… _this_, is quite frankly beyond her.)

“Ready?” she asks in that low, husky voice of hers, brows raised. 

Wanda swallows thickly. “Y-Yes.”

Natasha winks. “Good girl.”

— — 

They pass two bustling green-lit intersections in silence before someone speaks—unsurprisingly, it’s Natasha who first ventures to break the measured quiet between them:

“You look positively radiant today, little one,” she muses, her green eyes darting over to settle upon Wanda for a moment or two before dutifully reorienting themselves onto the road ahead. “Did you do something to your hair?”

Wanda ducks her head bashfully, cheeks pink. “I-I did, Miss R—" She stops herself as Natasha takes her gaze off the road once more to give her a stern look. “Natasha,” Wanda corrects herself as gracefully as she can manage, then stumbles through her next words in something of a flurry: “I blow-dried it, and, um… straightened it.”

Natasha chuckles at that, the sound throaty and rich. (Wanda feels her thighs clench together of their own accord and silently prays to a god she isn’t quite sure she believes in that she won’t leak through her lacey black thong and onto the leather seat.) “Got all dolled up for me, hm?”

Wanda feels the flush in her cheeks spread to the tips of her ears even as she concedes that there’s really no point in lying; still, it’s profoundly startling to hear herself utter out a meek (but unwavering) “Yes,” in reply.

Even Natasha seems somewhat taken aback at Wanda’s plain candor, though she does well to hide it beyond a subtle raise of the brow and a spark of something almost _hungry_ in her jade-green-eyed gaze—Wanda’s sure it’s merely a trick of the light, her eyes seeing only what they wish to see. 

(And how interesting it is, she can’t help but think, that that predatory and borderline ravenous look in Natasha’s sage-green irises is one that she finds herself actively seeking, constantly in pursuit of this dangerous but oh-so-delectable sign that she’s getting under the older woman’s skin, that she’s poking the proverbial beast and somehow managing to get away with it until she doesn’t… and oh, how she finds herself yearning for the day that she doesn’t.)

“And that tiny little skirt?” Natasha questions, voice low—almost a growl, really, and Wanda can’t help but feel endlessly aroused by it. "That deplorable tease of a neckline? Who are those for?”

Wanda swallows thickly at the new line of questioning, suddenly hyperaware unto the sheer amount of milky pale skin she’s left so rashly on display, fodder for any and all that wished to sneak a look—it should feel embarrassing to her, shameful (and rest assured, from the very moment she steps into her workplace until the second she leaves, it very much so does) but right now… well. 

Right now, she almost wishes she might be able to get away with wearing less where there’s only Natasha here to see; she can’t help but wonder if Natasha would drop the gentlewomanly comportment when confronted with the sight of a very naked and exceedingly willing Wanda at her mercy, can’t help but wish she’d trade those kindly eyes and gentle touch for something rougher, something hard enough to bruise… 

“I… "

“Be honest with me, милая,” Natasha chides, a steely hint of warning in her tone (that which the Russian term of endearment does little to soften). 

Wanda gulps. “It's, um… Angela, my manager… "

Natasha’s fingers curl tighter around the steering wheel, her grip turning white-knuckled even as Wanda squirms anxiously in her seat, praying she’ll just drop it. “What about her?”

“She… It’s nothing, really—she just says that we need to show a little skin for the customers.”

“And why is that?” Natasha asks, a dangerous edge creeping into her tone. 

(It excites and terrifies Wanda in equal parts.)

“Because 'the food isn’t the only thing we’re selling,’” Wanda dutifully rattles off Angela’s exact words from a couple months ago, when she’d pulled Wanda aside to critique her fully-buttoned-up blouse and modestly-worn suede uniform skirt for the very first time. 

(She leaves out the part where it makes her feel devoid of worth, _cheap_… as if she’s nothing more than an object, a pretty little plaything for wealthy and prominent men—along with the occasional woman—to ogle as she walks past, simply trying to do her _job_ so that she and Pietro don’t go hungry.

She leaves out the time that one spectacularly drunk man had boldly groped her ass beneath the white-cloth-covered table with his small, sweaty hands, how security took him away well before it could get much worse but Wanda still splurged on an Uber that night because she couldn’t stop feeling the man’s touch upon her skin like a burn that never went away, a brand asserting his status over someone so lowly and _common_ as her.

Natasha doesn’t need to hear about that.)

The redheaded woman is silent for a long moment—long enough to make Wanda worry she’s misspoken, that this is the final straw for her, that Natasha’s finally having the belated realization that Wanda isn’t good enough for her, isn’t worthy of her time. 

(It was inevitable, Wanda knows—simply a matter of time. That doesn’t mean it won’t hurt any less.)

When Natasha finally opens her mouth to speak as she turns the car smoothly onto a familiar-looking street, Wanda braces herself for impact. 

But, instead—“Do you enjoy working there?” is what Natasha asks, the question simple but measured, her voice genuine but stern. 

Wanda blinks confoundedly. “What?”

“I asked if you enjoy working there, кошечка,” Natasha repeats wryly, the ghost of a smile tugging at her full red-painted lips.

(_Кошечка_, Wanda repeats in her head. _That’s a new one_. 

She’ll have to look it up after her shift when she gets home.)

“I, um… " Wanda trails off, frowning to herself—no one had ever asked her that before, and heaven knew she’d certainly never asked it of _herself_. 

After all, what did it matter? It was a job, one that paid well enough to keep herself and Pietro financially afloat, one that required fairly reasonable hours and relatively little unpleasantness… it was never a question of whether or not she _wanted_ to wait tables at a fairly upscale restaurant in downtown San Francisco while enduring a cacophony of classless catcalls and blatantly backhanded compliments and outright objectifying flirtations all the while. 

And, either way, it wasn’t quite so bad—she had Elise and a steady paycheck and three prepaid meals a month and a life that she doesn’t want to leave behind, a life that’s more than sleazy businessmen and their obscene remarks and having to slap away the occasional attempt at a sure-handed grope when they’re drunk enough to think they’ll get away with it, because it’s hers and Pietro’s and that’s all that really matters at the end of everything.

“… I’m not sure,” is the answer she settles on as Natasha signals into the dotted-yellow left turn lane in the middle of the street and promptly hangs a smooth left onto an unfamiliar side street—a move that might’ve made Wanda nervous, had it been anyone else. But with Natasha…. it was different. _Everything_ was different with her. “It’s never really been like that, I suppose.”

“Like what?”

“Well, like… it’s never been about _liking_ my job there, though I certainly don’t hate it by any stretch of the imagination,” Wanda manages to say, her hands fidgeting anxiously in her lap—she’s all too aware that this is likely more words she’s dared to string together all in one go since that delectably sunny day in the coffee shop, since they sat face-to-face in that rundown café Wanda so adores, sipping their drinks and exchanging bittersweet memories and simply _existing_ in a moment that felt far too simple and heartrendingly _real_ to be true. “It’s about the steady income it offers me, and the bigger tips I get here and there from the more affluent customers… We can’t live here, Pietro and I, not unless he’s doing his part going to work every day and I am, too. I… Sorry—Gosh, I'm sorry,” she exclaims suddenly, making an instinctive move to cover her reddened face with her hands before promptly thinking better of it, Natasha’s inexorable command from earlier echoing distantly in her brain. "I’m rambling again, aren’t I?”

Natasha cocks a single brow, seeming entirely unbothered as she takes another right turn onto a busier street, one Wanda recognizes this time—they’re about a couple blocks out from her work. “What did I tell you about your rambling, дорогая?”

Wanda worries her lower lip between her teeth, doing her very best to remember. “Um… "

“Forgetful, are we?” Natasha quips (though her tone is teasing, devoid entirely of any measure of animosity).

Wanda bows her head, slender ring-clad fingers fiddling absentmindedly with the short hem of her uniform skirt. “I-I’m sorry, I—"

“I’m only teasing, pretty girl,” Natasha assures her, one hand reaching over to rub the smooth flesh of Wanda’s upper thigh in soothing motions as the other remains securely upon the steering wheel, her touch warm and gentle and yet inexplicably _controlling_ all in one, and Wanda can’t help but think, _God, I’m so glad I shaved last night_ even as her lower abdomen churns with a white-hot arousal powerful enough to have her clenching her thighs together, grinding subtly (or so she hopes) into the seat beneath her, desperate for some form of stimulation. “Legs apart.”

Wanda blanches at the command, body frozen in place, _sure_ she didn’t just hear Natasha say—

“Legs _apart_, kitten,” Natasha repeats through gritted teeth as she flashes a warning glare over to Wanda, who immediately complies—allowing her trembling knees to separate about a half a foot apart (she has to swallow a truly depraved whimper from creeping up and out of her throat at the sensation of cool air ghosting across her lace-covered center) even as Natasha’s hand creeps beneath her skirt and steadily up her thigh, the woman's calloused thumb rubbing slow reassuring circles into Wanda's pale skin all the while. 

“You’re wet, красивая, aren’t you?” she asks with a truly outlandish note of nonchalance to her saccharine tone, like they’re discussing something so painfully mundane as the weather in the skies above. 

Wanda gives a shallow nod, panting desperately as Natasha’s hand creeps higher, higher, higher… 

An abrupt and _stinging_ pinch to the delicate flesh of her inner thigh has a strangled yelp escaping her throat. “Use your words,” Natasha admonishes, leaving no room for negotiation. “You’re wet for me, aren’t you?"

Wanda squirms in her seat as Natasha’s long, slender fingers brush against the damp fabric between her thighs, gasping for breath, head spinning—but she doesn’t intend to make the same mistake again, and a moment later she’s stammering out a raspy, “Y-Yes, Mi—Natasha.”

“I want to hear you _say it_, darling.” Natasha begins to rub long, slow strokes against her clothed pussy from entrance to clit and back down again, her dextrous fingers pressing so perfectly against Wanda’s most sensitive parts in such a way that threatens to rip utterly pornographic (not to mention _humiliating_) mewls from Wanda’s throat if she isn’t careful. 

Wanda gasps, slamming her eyelids shut as a mini tidal wave of unadulterated pleasure rushes through her, driving her ever closer to that tantalizing peak—“Yes, I—I’m wet for _you_, Mi—_Natasha_, no one else,” Wanda sobs before Natasha can reprimand her, even as another sure-handed swipe against her panty-covered clit has her hips bucking abruptly into Natasha’s touch of their own accord, an all-consuming _need_ filling her gut until—

Natasha withdraws her touch entirely, retracting her hand from beneath Wanda’s skirt even despite the altogether wanton whine the abrupt action elicits from a euphoria-drunk Wanda, black suede uniform skirt hiked up obscenely on pale thighs, her alabaster legs inelegantly askew. 

“Good,” Natasha praises, turning them methodically into a familiar parking lot as if nothing of even mild importance has just occurred, leaving Wanda panting in an effort to regain her breath, unfulfilled embers of dwindling pleasure buzzing this way and that inside her stomach in such a way that she’s sure will drive her mad if left unsatisfied. “Now, I don’t wish to keep you from your work,” she says with a smirk as she shifts the car smoothly into ‘park’ before the restaurant’s silver-plated entrance. “But I’d love to see you again, Wanda.”

Wanda just gapes back, chest heaving, pussy tingling beneath her well and truly soaked-through thong. “I… " she trails off, jaw slackened even as Natasha chuckles, cutting the engine and prying open her door before disembarking effortlessly from the car. 

And still, Wanda merely watches in something akin to shock as the confident redhead comes around the front of the car over to Wanda’s door, opening it for her in a single motion. 

“You might want to pull down your skirt, милая,” she tells a still-seated and very much flustered Wanda from where she stands even whilst offering an outstretched hand to help her out the car. 

Wanda feels her cheeks flame with embarrassment, hastily adjusting her skirt with one hand while the other dazedly takes Natasha’s proffered hand and allows the older woman to help her out of the car. 

She barely registers the sound of the passenger-side door shutting behind her, nor the wide-eyed Elise that struts past the pair of them in a matching uniform on the sidewalk, rubbernecking well past the sleek gold-brimmed restaurant double doors. 

All she can focus on is Natasha, the cinnamon and honeysuckle scent of her expensive perfume, that hungry look upon her regal features as she takes Wanda in with lust-blown pupils. “How does tomorrow sound? 1:00. My place. I’ll cook.”

In fantastically shortsighted fashion, Wanda answers with the first thing that comes to mind: “1:00? AM or PM?”

(Really, she could’ve smacked herself right then.)

Natasha’s smirk widens to bare a row of perfect pearly-white teeth, green eyes sparkling with amusement. “PM, little one. Can I pick you up at 12:30?”

“Okay,” Wanda agrees breathlessly, wincing internally when she feels a droplet of her own arousal beginning to trace down her inner thigh. “That, um… That sounds… Good.”

Natasha chuckles, a single hand coming up to rest upon the side of her throat, thumb stroking idly at the warm skin beneath her jaw—Wanda can’t help but shudder and lean herself further into the contact, a contented sigh escaping her lips. “Be safe at work, милая, and don’t hesitate to call should you need it. Вопросы есть?” she asks finally, then adds a translation for Wanda’s benefit: “Any other questions?"

Wanda shakes her head, basking in Natasha’s touch. “No, Ma'am,” she murmurs quietly, not even realizing her own slip until a split second later when—_Shit_. “OhmyGod, I’m so sorry, I meant _Nata_—"

“Do _not_ apologize, little one,” she growls sharply, hot breath ghosting across Wanda’s nose, an unreadable look in her eyes. “We will discuss this later.” 

Wanda nods, eyes wide. “O-Okay."

Natasha leans in then, planting a feather-light kiss upon Wanda’s forehead (the hand curled around Wanda’s neck steadying her all the while), warm and fulfilling and all too fleeting—there one moment, gone the next. (God, how Wanda wishes she’d stay.) 

“I have to go,” she murmurs, stroking her thumb one last time across the delicate skin beneath Wanda’s jaw before withdrawing it entirely. “Until next time?” she questions with a cooked smirk that dimples her cheeks, sage-green eyes twinkling. 

Wanda just nods, doing her very best not to show the disappointment she feels, the elation of earlier collapsing in her chest like a house of paper-thin cards. “Until next time,” she repeats, hating the way her voice trembles on the final syllable. 

And just like that she’s off, strutting around the hood of her car and in through the driver’s side door (though not before giving Wanda one last wink over its sleek obsidian-black roof), then shutting it behind her and starting the engine with a quiet roar before peeling past the valet stand and out the parking lot in a matter of seconds. 

… Which just leaves Wanda standing helplessly upon the red-carpeted entrance into the eatery, staring wistfully off towards the last place she’d seen Natasha’s super expensive car before losing it in the sheer abundance of rush-hour traffic in downtown San Francisco, that sensitive place between her thighs aching but her heart aching even _worse_ in her ribcage for reasons she’s far too overwhelmed to bother examining, for reasons she frankly isn’t quite sure she’s anywhere near ready to accept, to be perfectly honest. 

She’s far too distracted to take note of none other than Elise slipping out the entrance and up behind her with a wide shit-eating grin upon her younthful tawny features; hell, she doesn’t notice her when she sidles up right beside Wanda on the red-carpeted walkway, not until she lets out a low whistle that has Wanda nearly jumping out of her skin and eliciting a truly pitiful cry like a cat being strangled from sheer fright. 

“Jesus Christ, Ellie,” she huffs once she’s caught her breath (somewhat), giving a cackling Elise a light shove in half-hearted retaliation. “Don’t _do_ that; you scared me.”

“Uh-huh.” Elise brandishes a thin cigarette and a tacky bright purple plastic lighter from the black standard-issue apron tied around her small waist, placing the joint between her lips and lighting it with a practiced motion. “Who’s the lucky lady?”

Wanda ducks her head, kicking childishly at the wine-red carpet beneath her with Converse-clad feet as she feels the blush from earlier return tenfold. “Nobody.”

Elise rolls her pretty brown eyes at that, taking a long drag from her cigarette and holding it for a second or two before exhaling out a long column of smoke. (The ashy smell of it makes Wanda wrinkle her nose.) “Yeah, sure. But does ’nobody’ have a friend?” she questions, waggling her well-shaped eyebrows goofily at Wanda. "A rich, good-looking friend? Emphasis on the ‘rich’ part?”

Wanda giggles at that, shaking her head as Elise takes another drag. “I don’t know, El. It’s all pretty, um… new.”

Elise nods understandingly at that, inspecting her burning cigarette between long shiny black acrylic nails as she exhales another steady stream of smoke. “Fair enough, honey… “ she trails off lightly, though there’s a note of rare sincerity in her smoke-hoarse voice as she continues, "But really, the main thing I wanna know is—she's treating you right, yeah?”

Wanda blinks at the sudden change but recovers quickly, giving a slow nod and rubbing at her upper arms to combat the cool sunset breeze. “She is. I think… I think things might be good with her.”

“Good,” Elise asserts, blowing out a ring of smoke. “That’s all that really matters, right?”

Wanda nods, feeling a shy grin overtake her features. “Yeah.”

“Maximoff! Ruiz!” comes Angela’s shrill voice from inside, the sound of her clicking heels storming closer and closer to the entrance of the establishment.

“Shit!” Elise hisses, throwing down her cigarette and stomping it out with the toe of her black Vans, then surreptitiously slipping the bright purple lighter back into her apron as they both hear a telltale no-bullshit knock upon the glass of the double-doors behind them. “C’mon—before She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named kills us for insubordination.”

Wanda snorts at that but follows quickly after Elise as she scurries up the red-carpeted walkway and inside the double doors, then leads them to scramble their way past a stormy-faced Angela with bowed heads out past the hostess’ stand and into the main seating area (sparingly occupied with the beginnings of a typical 6:00pm dinner rush), both girls desperately trying to stifle their giggles along the way. 

“Jesus, that woman scares me,” Elise mutters once they've busted their way through the kitchen doors, simultaneously heaving audible sighs of relief at having escaped the danger (for now).

“Another day, another dollar?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

— —

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> кошечка | _koshechka_ | kitten (f)  
дорогая | _dorogaya_ | darling (f) [term of endearment]  
красивая | _krasivaya_ | beautiful (f) [term of endearment; often also used as an adjective]  
милая | _milaya_ | sweetheart (f) [term of endearment]  
вопросы есть? | _vaprosi yest?_ | questions?


	8. a sleepless night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wanda returns home exhausted and more than ready for sleep, only to find a wide-awake Pietro waiting for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry, no natasha in this chapter but honestly 
> 
> pietro and wanda's dynamic is always a huge part of writing wanda for me, <strike>possibly</strike> because pietro and wanda remind me a lot of me and my brother and i cannot put into words the lengths that i would go to to ensure his happiness and safety 
> 
> but ANYWAYS
> 
> let me know what you think as always?

2:04am sees Wanda at the end of a fairly uneventful shift gathering her bag and phone from her locker, clocking out for both herself and Elise on the dusty slow-as-hell Macintosh desktop computer from something like 2003 in the back room, then traipsing out the side entrance with her loudly groaning colleague-slash-friend in tow and setting off for home. 

There’s a chill in the night air as they stride side-by-side down the sidewalk before coming to a stop at a busy intersection, where a yawning Elise punches the spherical silver button built into the circular iron post supporting the rectangular blue street sign overhead (the name “Lafayette” stenciled upon both side in neat white lettering). 

“Wait,” comes the pre-recorded message from a speaker up above that neither of them bother looking for, coolly informing them that it’s not yet safe to cross. 

“Fuck off,” Elise murmurs quietly, as if the automated voice can hear her. 

Wanda giggles at that, all-consuming exhaustion drooping her heavy eyelids as she sways with a hum in the brisk late-night breeze, goosebumps rising upon her exposed skin with every bone-chilling gust. “I can’t _wait_ to get back home.”

Elise yawns, nodding drowsily in agreement. “I’m gonna sleep until dinnertime."

“That seems like a bit much."

“You know, you’re right—I should wake up before then. Otherwise I’ll miss Happy Hour down at Old Man Burnstein’s.”

Wanda wrinkles her nose at that even as a lazy grin traces her features. “Aren’t you working the night shift tomorrow, too?”

“Yeah. What about it?”

Wanda huffs out an amused breath of air. “Nothing.” 

“Walk,” comes the automated voice from above as the street lights up ahead blink bright green and the corresponding symbol appears upon the sign at the other end of the crosswalk. 

Elise leads the way, trudging down from the curb and out across the painted asphalt—Wanda trails after her, quickening her zombie-like pace to keep up even as a particularly zealous yawn has her vision blurring reflexively with tears. 

_God, I can’t wait to get some sleep_. 

— — 

Another fifteen-minute stretch sees them parting ways—Elise down 5th Ave., Wanda continuing down the main road until 49th Street where she hangs a sharp left followed promptly by a wide right turn onto Beecher and finally arrives at her apartments after passing by the run-down convenience store that sells the best bagel breakfast sandwich around (at least, in Wanda and Pietro’s humbled opinion). 

It’s eerie, walking alone so late in the night—or, probably “terrifying” would be a more accurate descriptor, but Wanda always does her very best not to linger too hard on that. 

Instead, she punches in “911” on her phone’s keypad (allowing her finger to hover apprehensively over the green “call” button), quickens her pace to a speed-walk that borders on jogging, and hopes for the best. 

It’s just past 3:00am when she stumbles her way up two flights of stairs and across the third-story landing into the apartment, making a concerted effort to be quiet all the while so as not to wake Pietro. 

Turns out, she needn’t worry about waking her decidedly more charismatic other half, because the darkened silhouette swinging its pale legs from the kitchen counter in the unlit space damn near gives her a heart attack when she’s carefully closing the door behind her (ensuring to lock it with an audible _click!_) and making to leave her bag (a small black leather mini-backpack that she takes anywhere and everywhere she goes) on the kitchen counter. 

“Sister,” comes her brother’s accented (and decidedly nonplussed) intonation from the shadows even as Wanda struggles to regulate her heartbeat back down to a normal pace. “How was work?” 

(Clearly, he’s been up for a while.)

“_Jesus_, Pietro,” she admonishes in lieu of answer, moving to hit the third in a row of switches to her right—seconds later, the kitchen lights (three of them arranged in a triangular formation built into the drywall overhead) flicker on to reveal a half-dressed Pietro slouched upon the countertop, a grouchy (and somewhat exhausted) look upon his angular features. “You scared me.”

“Bright,” he groans immediately, rubbing blearily at his squinted eyes—it’s quite a sight, her twin at this hour, with bare feet and only a worn old pair of Lakers basketball shorts on his lower half and a dire case of platinum-blonde bedhead to show for it. “So _bright_.”

She struggles against the pointed urge to roll her eyes. “Don’t be dramatic. What are you doing awake?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” he admits quietly, scratching ruefully at his bedraggled hair. 

_Nightmares_, Wanda gathers. He doesn’t say it aloud, but she hears it in his silence, sees it in the almost timid way he holds himself beneath the impartial rays of artificial light. (Her twin was a great many things—impulsive, obnoxious, hotheaded, brooding… but not “timid.” _Never_ “timid.”)

She affords him a nod, tidal waves of exhaustion rearing in her chest even as a pervasive sensation of restlessness sets itself alight in her bones, a sort of unease that she knows won’t give way to sleep while her other half remains hyper-vigilant in the most ungodly hours of night; no, they won’t be sleeping much tonight, either of them. 

“Want to watch a movie?” Wanda hears herself ask, already making to move past the kitchen and towards the polyester midnight-black couch that sits opposite the television—the question is more rhetorical than anything else; she knows very well that her twin will follow.

(It’s their routine on nights like this, where being awake is torture but sleep is impossible, where remaining silent is hard but talking isn’t much better… where everything is wrong and there’s little to be done about it so instead they'll watch shitty movies and laugh over fictional blunders; they'll allow themselves to just simply _exist_ in a moment that feels just a tiniest bit safer than the tragedy they left behind, a moment where they don’t carry the comprehensive weight of their late family’s bloodline on their small trembling shoulders…

There, in the dead of night with soft blankets and a slightly-burnt packet of microwavable popcorn and some silly American movie about a talking robot named Rodney playing out across the screen… the big bad world doesn’t feel quite so scary any more, nor do the two of them have to feel so heartrendingly lonely amidst its expansive domain. 

For a spell, they can feel contented just being a lost pair of fraternal 20-somethings who travelled to America from a dying foreign country and haven’t the faintest clue about what they’re doing or where they aim to go next or anything that spans beyond surviving to see another month, really. 

For approximately two and a half hours, the uncertainty of it all doesn’t have to feel quite so bad.)

“Sure,” he humors her with a murmured response. Her lips twitch as she hears him hop off the kitchen counter, uneven footfalls padding over to follow her across the hardwood flooring. 

Wanda hums, snatching the remote off the otherwise vacant couch before allowing herself to collapse dramatically atop the cushions, feeling her brother’s tentative hazel-eyed gaze upon her all the while. “Any preference?”

Pietro shrugs, sinking into place beside her upon the couch. “Not really. But if you put on My Little Pony, I’m leaving.”

“That was _one_ time.”

“It was repulsive. Traumatic, even.”

“I'm sure.”

— — 

Pietro falls asleep midway through their second film (a curious movie about a pointy-nosed man with a Slavic-sounding accent and an ever-multiplying horde of tiny yellow gibberish-spouting midgets at his command called “Despicable Me”), snoring loudly on her shoulder. 

In the meantime, violet skies over a metropolitan horizon make themselves visible through the few un-shuttered windows in the apartment space, illuminating the modest interior with a refreshing effulgence of natural light—it’s rather beautiful and serene, sitting there. (Though the steadily growing drool-soaked patch beneath her wrinkled collar, courtesy of her dozing brother, threatens to ruin the liminal moment.)

A quick check to the time upon her phone tells her it’s 6:37, right around the time Pietro typically rouses for school. 

She sneaks a sidelong glance at her drooling twin: his oblique features softened with sleep, an unusual vulnerability splayed clearly across them in the growing light of morning; his bedraggled platinum chemically-bleached blonde hair, every mussed strand appearing almost supernova bright beneath the sparse golden rays of the rising sun; every muscle in his upper body lax and at _ease_ in a way she's only ever witnessed when he was hammered, or perhaps from their better years back in a struggling (but most importantly _alive_) Sokovia, where the two of them were young and difficult and _naive_ to the disastrous turns their life would soon take. 

She decides to let him rest a little longer—a quick sniff to his disheveled scalp tells her he’ll manage another day without showering (though as soon as he gets back, he’d _better_ get his ass in the tub for the good of everyone in a five-mile radius). 

And besides, he doesn’t need to be out the door till 7:20 (7:26 at the latest if they’re planning to really cut it close); she can easily get away with waking him at 7:00 on the dot. She does the math in her head (because better safe than sorry)—7 minutes to get dressed, 4 minutes to brush his teeth and drag a comb through his unruly hair, 6 minutes to scarf down breakfast, which allows for a solid 3-minute (*9-minute if, again, they’re planning to really cut it close) cushion in case he needs it.

Satisfied with her mental math, Wanda shuts off the television (they’re midway through Agnes, Margo and Edith’s Swan Lake ballet recital) and allows her heavy head to loll comfortably atop the sofa back. 

She barely remembers to set an alarm for 7:00 (allowing her and Pietro exactly 12 minutes of rest) before she’s drifting off into a light doze, a strange (but not at all unwelcome) sense of contentment infusing itself steadily within her bones all the while, warming her oh-so-wondrously from the inside out in a way little else but the easy presence of her other half (and possibly Natasha) ever could. 

— —

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pietro and wanda's dynamic has me absolutely distraught in the best possible way okay i LOVE them

**Author's Note:**

> thots? comments? concerns?
> 
> link to my [tumblr](https://psyches.co.vu/) or just search @ultralightdumbass to come talk to me there!


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